Retribution
by cowgirlfromhell
Summary: OW - Vendetta - a private feud in which the members of the family of a murdered person seek to avenge the murder by killing the slayer. Retribution - Something given or demanded in repayment, especially punishment. The Nichols family returns to Four Corners.
1. Chapter 1

The weekly stage pulled into Four Corners sending clouds of dust billowing from the horse's hooves and the coach's wheels. John 'JD' Dunne had been on a wooden bunch outside the saloon flipping an ancient pocketknife into the well-worn wood of the boardwalk and turned to watch as passengers stepped down from the stage, his eyes widening as the last passenger stepped lightly to the ground.

Jumping up, the young peacekeeper ran headlong into the drinking establishment and, tripping over his own feet, almost fell ass over teacup into the table where Josiah Sanchez, Ezra Standish and Buck Wilmington halfheartedly played poker. At an adjacent table Vin Tanner and Nathan Jackson played a cutthroat game of checkers while Chris Larabee, in one of his moods, was nowhere to be seen. The leader of the unofficial posse of lawmen was more than likely riding the outskirts of town, keeping a sharp eye out for any untoward danger.

Grabbing beers before they could spill and chips before they could disappear into vest pockets, Ezra and Buck quickly stood up and backed away from the table while Josiah simply slid his chair back and caught the young man around the waist before he could collided with the table. JD broke free of the near tackle and straightening up said, "You ain't gonna believe this but I think you'd better be headin' for the church, Josiah. One of the stage passenger's probably gonna need a preacher."

"That so?" Josiah settled his hat on his head and sighed deeply. "They bring in a body?"

JD crossed over to the window to peer out at the street again. "No, nothin' like that."

Ezra looked down at Josiah and the big man just shrugged his shoulders while Buck threw down the loosing cards he'd been dealt in disgust and headed to the door to see what J.D. was going on about.

"We'll, I'll be damned," the ladies man said with a smile and pushed the batwings open and headed for the small group of passengers surrounding the coach as they awaited their luggage.

Walking up to the slatted brown doors, Josiah looked over them and watched as his friend headed directly toward a forlorn looking, quite possibly distressed, damsel and chuckled, "I'm sure you will, Buck." He, too, exited the bar with Ezra, Nathan and JD all in tow as they followed the ladies man.

Only Vin Tanner remained in the saloon, content to let trouble find him and not the other way around, while Chris Larabee, astride his big black gelding, pulled the horse up to watch the small convergence in the center of town.

Buck Wilmington's damsel in distress was a young woman with sky blue eyes and coal black hair once arranged in a most sophisticated style but now thoroughly disheveled with long strands fall haphazardly down her back and bedraggled curls framing her dirt-smudged face. Her gown, originally virginal white, lace draped and pearl studded was now grime covered, sorely worn and wrinkled. Glancing at the gaping onlookers she tried to smooth out the wrinkle silk and stretch out some of the kinks in her back after the long, arduous journey.

As they approached the passengers, Josiah said softly to JD, "I see what you mean about her needin' me…but where's the groom?" There was no one amongst the other passengers she could have been remotely connected to let alone married to and a thoroughly perplexed JD just shrugged his shoulders.

Buck, sensing a lady in need, quickly doffed his hat. "May I be of service? Name's Bucklin Wilmington."

His was a familiar name and, when she looked up into his smiling face, she knew that this was undoubtedly 'the ladies man'. Exceedingly tall and handsome with blue eyes that fairly twinkled with more than a hint of the rogue, she knew she was finally on the right track.

Ezra Standish cocked an eyebrow and moved closer to await the young bride's response. She looked vaguely familiar as she smiled when Buck boldly pushed a stray curl back from her face. Not wanting to be shut out by the smooth talking Wilmington, Ezra bowed and offered to retrieve her luggage.

"I haven't any," she replied without hesitation, her speech lilting with the slightest of brogues. Staring at him she knew 'the gambler' stood before her, his green eyes sharp and questioning as he offered his assistance. Would he still be as accommodating if he knew the reason for her lack of luggage?

A booming baritone voice made her turn away from Ezra. "I'm Josiah Sanchez and I'm the closest thing to a preacher you'll find in town…if that's what your looking for," he said and the bride blinked, her long, dark lashes fanning pale cheeks.

He looked like no preacher she'd ever seen before and his sheer size and passively menacing face made perfect sense of her brothers' tales now that he stood before her in the flesh. Nathan nodded as her eyes came to rest on his face and, as there were no others like him on the street, the town's only practitioner must have stood next to the man of the cloth. She smiled and nodded demurely looking toward the younger man. He failed to acknowledge her in any way and simply stared at her, wide eyed and tongue-tied.

Mary Travis moved down the boardwalk toward the hotel and, catching Chris Larabee's eye, smiled shyly as he touched the brim of his hat. Dismounting, Larabee tied his black gelding to the railing in front of the sheriff's office and stared openly at the young woman standing in the obviously costly gown, now travel stained and hopelessly snagged.

Returning his level stare, she spoke, "I'm looking for one Chris Larabee."

Laughing, Buck lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender and backed away from her. A bride looking for a would-be groom the likes of Chris Larabee meant nothing but trouble.

Chris looked to Mary once again and, seeing the surprise on her usually serene face, just shrugged his shoulders. Although he was sure he had never seen her before the woman was nonetheless vaguely familiar to him, too and he replied, "I'm Chris Larabee." His voice was even and guarded as he shouldered his way into the center of the group.

"I was told that you and six others protect this town." Six of the seven now stood before her and she turned her gaze directly to the one dressed in black and nodded in satisfaction. He looked every inch the white knight, even dressed as he was, and she would have recognized him instantly as the leader of these other men.

"That's right," his acknowledgment ever careful, revealing nothing more.

The bride's shoulders relaxed a bit as she smiled in relief and spoke hurriedly, "My name is Cadence Nichols and I may be in need of that very same protection."


	2. Chapter 2

"Nichols!" Ezra was taken aback by the mere mention of the name and could immediately see her resemblance to the pack of stone cold killers who had invaded the town months earlier searching for vengeance. "Of the Kansas City Nichols," he muttered, a pain beginning to grow behind his eyes.

"My brothers told me about you...and this town and I figured this was the only place I could truly be safe," Cadence told them, her hand fluttering nervously to her throat.

"Let me hazard a guess," Ezra pushed the brim of his hat up and stared down at the dress, "You disagreed with your sainted mother on her choice of a husband."

Cadence looked to the gambler again and noticed his immaculate visage. Looking down at her costly gown she again tried to straighten out some of the wrinkles though her ministrations were useless. "I did," she said looking back up into what she'd hoped would be kind eyes.

His face was pained but he asked anyway. "May I presume he was left standing at the alter?" and, becoming resigned to her fate, his eyes grew cold.

"He was," she said in a strained voice glancing from one set of unsympathetic eyes to the next. Even the handsome Mr. Wilmington's eyes had lost their twinkle.

"And even now your brothers are in hot pursuit?" Ezra asked rhetorically.

Vin, who had let curiosity get the best of him, groaned knowing the answer to Ezra's question even before the woman spoke. He turned to glance sideways at Chris' stony profile wondering what the gunman would do when he learned the truth of the matter.

Cadence cleared her throat and answered, her voice quavering this time, "They are."

Larabee took a step closer to her and spoke harshly, "Well, your brothers may have told you about this town, about us, but you figured wrong. There's no safe haven for you here so I suggest you get back on that stage and move on." Larabee was angry, blunt and to the point, adding, "Your family did a lot of damage when they were here last."

Like a petulant child recently scolded by a stern father, Cadence's lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. Her voice became strong again and she replied angrily, "And you caused my family grievous injury and mortal harm!" Her initial impression of the gunman had been a mistake; her dislike of him instantaneous after his rebuke and she turned to face those she thought might be more compassionate and willing to help.

"Well, that couldn't be helped, Miss," Josiah spoke up in their defense as his wary eyes searched the roadway the coach had traveled, fearing her family was close at hand.

"I know full well what my family is like and what their business in your town was." She was fully aware of the loathsome looks and sudden wide berth the town's people were giving her but continued anyway. "They told me how you stood up to them." She turned back to speak directly to Chris, her slight brogue thickening with every angry word, "I thought you were an honorable and courageous man but apparently you are a coward."

Not willing to stand idly by and listen to the insults, Mary Travis stepped toward the woman. "Now wait just a minute..."

she said ready to defend Chris and the others but Cadence Nichols would brook no outside interference from her.

"Oh, do shut up!" She spat out. Knowing she would get no help in Four Corners but exhausted to the point of tears, Cadence hoisted up her skirt and grabbed the lift to her voluminous train and began her march directly toward the hotel, leaving the dwindling group to stare after her.

"Tell the driver to hold the stage," Chris barked to no one in particular and added, "I'll see that the wayward bride gets back on."

"But she needs our help," the youngest of the lawmen pointed out, clearly not remembering the horrific beating he'd suffered at the hands of the woman's brothers.

Josiah placed a gentle but firm hand on the young man's shoulder and gave him a warning squeeze. "It's a family affair, JD. They need to handle it themselves."

JD opened his mouth to protest again but Chris Larabee had already made his decision. His bobs jingled with intent as he strode purposefully across the street and into the hotel lobby where Cadence Nichols was about to sign the hotel register. He stepped up behind her, reached around and grabbed her hand forcing pen from paper.

"She won't be stayin'," Chris told the clerk in no uncertain terms then drew even closer to her, his chest pressing into her back, his hips into her bustle, trapping her up against the wooden registration desk. She dropped the pen and he heard the sharp intake of breath and felt her stiffen. Dipping his head down, his lips next to her ear, he made his demand clear in a low voice, "I want you back on that stage...now."

He stepped back giving Cadence room to turn and lifting her head haughtily, her cheeks flushed red, she looked him dead in the eye and slapped him across the face. When she did the clerk gasped audibly and instinctively backed away from the desk sending a beseeching look toward Ezra, Buck and JD, who had deemed it prudent to follow the black clad gunman into the hotel.

Watching the two of them standing toe to toe with barely an inch between them, Ezra cleared his throat. "Is there a problem, Mr. Larabee?" he asked trying to diffuse the tense situation. The two of them pointedly ignored him.

"Don't ever do that again," Chris warned her in a voice deceptively soft but deadly cold. He refused to back away and watched as she, too, tried to control her temper.

"Then don't man-handle me or order me around nor speak of me as if I weren't even here, you filthy Cretin!" she spat out. Her eyes grew cold but her words were hot with frustration and anger.

"Cretin?"

"From the French crétin. "A dwarfed and deformed idiot, JD" Ezra explained.

Chris snorted a derisive laugh at her demands and her insult and said with a sneer, "Apparently Ma Nichols whelped a bitch after all those lambs of hers." The gunman turned to Ezra who, surprised at the vulgarity of his comment, just stared at him. "Get her the hell out of here and on that stage!" he ordered then turned on his boot heel and almost yanked the front door off its hinges.

"You'll have to excuse him, Mizz…" Ezra started but Cadence held up a gloved hand stopping him in mid sentence.

She took in a deep breath. "The hell I will," she vowed and turned her back on him to demand the pen back from the desk clerk.

"Listen ma'am, I don't want no trouble here," the hapless clerk sputtered wiping his brow with a handkerchief, his fear of the black clad gunman outweighing that of his boss, the hotel's owner.

"I assure you there won't be any trouble..." Cadence stopped and turned to look pointedly at JD, Buck then Ezra, "Unless one of these gentlemen tries to put me back on that stage."

Ezra knew that they had been bested...for the moment and said to JD, "Mr. Dunne, please tell the stage driver that he can be on his way and, if I were you, I'd avoid Mr. Larabee at all costs until the coach is well on it's way."

JD, hat in hand, left quickly to complete his mission, after which, he planned to return to the sheriff's office until further notice.

Ezra turned back to the young woman, made a slight bow and said, "Welcome to our little municipality, Mizz Nichols."

"Thank you," Cadence replied with a rueful smile. She was thankful to finally have someone on her side if only in securing lodging, "I realize that my family is a little unorthodox in their dealings..." she said and took the pen to sign the register.

Ezra cut her off with a most ungentlemanly snort as he looked over her shoulder. "Unorthodox! They are a rabid pack of cold-blooded killers!" he said then begged her pardon, "No offense intended."

Cadence turned around to face him and giving him a wry smile, replied, "None taken, Mr. Standish. But Mr. Connolly did shoot my brother down in cold blood and Ma and my brothers felt they were in the right to come after him."

"Did they also feel they were in the right trying to kill us right along with Hank Connolly?" Buck asked her and reflexively rubbed the still tender spot on his shoulder where the deranged man had put a bullet.

"I'm not trying to defend them!" she stressed, her hurried flight and arduous journey having worn her to a frazzle, "I'm just trying to get free of them!" She closed her eyes and a single tear slipped from beneath her lashes to wet the dust on her face leaving a visible rivulet that the ladies man felt compelled to trace with a gentle finger.

Cadence started badly at his intimate gesture. Her eyes flew open and she clamped her jaw shut tightly, embarrassed by her lapse in fortitude, a moment that had left her vulnerable and weak. Steeling her spine once again she forced herself to calm down and began to try and explain. "Ma is forcing me to marry the son of a "competitor", if you will," she told the two of them and Ezra nodded in understanding.

"Ah, yes. Combining wealth and power through marriage. Making an ally of an enemy. Time honored traditions amongst kings and Southerners," he said gently, offering her his handkerchief, "Many a great plantation was forged 'round a wedding cake."

"Until the Union Army freed the slaves and those great plantations crumbled," Buck reminded him caustically, "Too bad we ain't done anything for the circumstance of the fairer sex."

"We could argue the pros and cons of women's' rights until the cows come home, Mr. Wilmington," Ezra told him, "But perhaps one of us should give Mr. Larabee the…news."

Chris Larabee already knew and continued to stare at the doors of the hotel from across the street and from under the brim of his hat as he leaned against the wall outside the saloon, his jaw working furiously. The stage had pulled out minutes before without the Nichols woman on it. Roughly pulling a cheroot from his breast pocket, his anger at her apparent defiance of him growing, he forcefully struck a match against the wooden wall and lit the small cigar.

"What'll we do now?" Vin Tanner asked as he took his place against the wall next to the taciturn gunfighter. He chewed thoughtfully on a piece of jerked beef, his blue eyes squinted and trained on the road into town.

"Ride out and find out how far behind they are. I'll get her out of town." Chris stopped when Vin chuckled out loud at the prospect of Cadence Nichols going anywhere with Chris Larabee and his mood darkening even more. "Even if I have to cold cock her and throw her over the back of my horse."

Vin gave his friend a jaundiced look. "You sure?"

Chris just sighed, "If they're set on taking her back, my place is as good as any to hand her over."

Pushing off from the wall Vin started down the sidewalk toward the livery, his hand resting on the butt of his mare's leg, while Chris tossed his cigar into the middle of the street and returned to the hotel only to find that, with Buck and Ezra's help, Cadence Nichols had slipped out the back, her destination - Potter's Mercantile.


	3. Chapter 3

"Son of a bitch," Chris Larabee swore as he headed back outside slamming the door behind him again.

In Potter's, he found the Nichols woman peering into a glass case housing various firearms. She looked up at the proprietress and said, "I'll take that one, if you please, Mrs. Potter. On credit of course." She'd pointed out a well-used but well maintained, .44-.40 caliber Russian Schofield. Nothing fancy, just a serviceable weapon with which to defend herself.

Mrs. Potter's forehead wrinkled. She liked to do business strictly on a cash and carry basis but looking up and into the glaring face of Chris Larabee, she would extend this woman a line of credit just to see her out of her store and gone.

"She won't be needin' it."

The cold voice sent a shiver down her back but Cadence refused to even acknowledge him. A moment later she cursed under her breath when she saw Mrs. Potter's wide-eyed expression and knew the formidable man dressed in black was again directly behind her. "I believe this is still a free country, Mr. Larabee," Cadence said not bothering to turn around. "I'll be taking this gun and some other necessities and leaving your fair town as soon as I can procure a horse. Of course, I'll repay this fine gentlewoman as soon as…"

"It's a free country alright," Chris interrupted, "but I'm the law and I'm takin' you into protective custody...and don't even think about sneakin' out the back."

Cadence spun around quickly, ready to slap him once again, and found her hand held painfully in his, his eyes mere slits.

"What'd I tell you?" he reminded her.

Cadence tried to pull her hand free but he held fast. Reining in her quick Irish temper she decided it was best to back down...for the moment.

Ezra walked into the Mercantile and sighed audibly. He had only left the sore for a moment and Chris Larabee had found her yet again. He saw the grip the gunman had on the girl's hand and started to protest but closed his mouth when he saw the black look on Larabee's face.

Never looking at the gambler, Chris barked out his orders, "Get her a horse. I'm takin' her out to my place." He frowned as he looked down at the wedding gown and added, "I think I have something fit for ridin' up in my room."

Cadence looked at him with anger flashing in her eyes. She was sick to death of every man with whom she came into contact telling her what to do, where to go, even what to think and she replied haughtily, "I'm perfectly capable to choose my own horse and certainly my own clothing!" She then let her anger get the best of her and told him, "and I'll not be followin' a punter the likes of yourself to your room."

Taken aback by her insult Chris squeezed her hand harder and tears threatened to slip from the corner of her eyes. He noticed her distress and relaxed his grip but never released her hand, explaining, "We don't have time to waste. I won't endanger anyone in this town by allowin' that pack of jackals you call a family to ride on in here. You can parlay with them at my place."

Cadence thought for a moment then accepted his 'proposal' meekly. She had other ideas about ever letting her brothers catch up to her or going to Chris Larabee's "place" for an ill advised meeting.

"Mr. Standish," she called to the Southerner as he started to leave Potter's to get her a horse, "Any mount will do." Turning her attention back to to the widow Potter, she said, "I'll still take the Schofield, Mrs. Potter, if you please." She turned to Larabee and added, "My family doesn't "parlay" well."

Grunting, the gunman dragged her out of the store, down the street and up the stairs of the boardinghouse in which he stayed while in town. It was a sparse room with only a single bed and a four-drawer bureau which he yanked open and pulled a clean white shirt from the top drawer and a pair of black pants from the second. He unceremoniously shoved them at her and barked, "Put these on!"

Unblinking, she just let the clothes fall to the floor.

Stooping before her to pick up the articles of clothing, Chris paused a moment, let his head drop and took in a few calming breaths. He didn't really want to hit her. Strike that, he thought, he really did. In fact he wanted to turn her over his knee and spank the living daylights out of her then knock her out cold if she continued to thwart his every move. Instead he stood up and explained the situation and probable outcome to her.

"I don't know how far away your brothers are and I want to be out of here, pronto. So either you put these on or I'll put them on you myself."

Cadence took the clothes he shoved at her and stared insolently at him. He made no move to leave the room or to even turn his back. His boorish behavior continued to annoy her but the mention of her brothers started to unnerve her as well. Stripping off her gloves, she started to unbutton the many tiny pearl buttons that ran down the bodice of the gown with unsteady hands.

"Oh, hell. We don't have time for this," Chris growled irritably. Grabbing the high-necked collar of the bodice, he simply ripped it open neatly down the front, buttons flying in every direction.

At the risk of having him rip off more of her garments, Cadence quickly removed her skirts, petticoats, corset cover and binding corset and soon stood before him in nothing but her chemise, drawers, silk stockings and satin slippers. Her face was flushed with embarrassment and Chris cursed under his breath when he noticed the dusky hue of her cheeks. Knowing her for all of ten minutes, Cadence Nichols seemed to bring out the very worst in him. Her whole family did for that matter, he conceded, and turned his back to allow her at least a modicum of privacy in which to dress.

Cadence looked at the britches as she removed her slippers. Leaving on the handmade, French silk, split crotch drawers, she pulled on the course, rough britches thankful for the barrier between material and skin and for the gunman's lithe build. The chemise was another matter, however.

Similar in length to a short nightdress there was no way she could bunch the garment up enough to fit under the white shirt. She slipped it over her head and let it fall to the floor and snatched up the sleeveless gossamer silk corset cover which lay on the bed instead. It left nothing to the imagination but would protect her tender skin from the rough linen.

Slipping into the shirt, she found the buttons barely closed across her full breasts and the tails hung down to her thighs. The sleeves also hung well passed her wrists hiding her hands completely and when she cleared her throat - the signal for him to turn back around - he snorted.

His clothes looked ridiculous on her. He grabbed her by the waistband and roughly tucked the shirt tails into the trousers and then rolled up the sleeves. Stepping back to take a bold look, he told her, "If we cut off your hair you might pass for a scrawny boy," and smiled insolently at her when she gasped at the suggestion.

"And if we geld you, you might pass for a proper lady's maid," she retorted. Eager to be rid of the lout, she pushed past him, opened the door and started down the stairs.

Ezra waited for the two of them at the bottom, a gun belt in one hand. He watched appreciatively as she came down the stairs in the tight pants and decided Chris Larabee's clothes had never looked better. Handing the gun off to her he asked, "Are you sure you know how to use one of these, darlin'?"

Cadence looked at him askance and asked rhetorically, "With my family tree?"

"Touché," Ezra replied and watched as she slipped the gun belt, with it's newly punched buckle tongue holes, around her slim hips and expertly broke open the pistol to check for cartridges, " I do believe Mrs. Potter has some young men's boots that may fit you and I dare say that this might prevent sunstroke until it's safe for you to return," whereupon he placed a hat, very similar to his own, on her head with a flourish.

"Thank you, Mr. Standish. At least there is one gentleman in this unfortunate crossroads" she said with a nod and genuine gratitude. She again started toward Potter's turning back briefly to make sure Chris Larabee was still following her and saluted Ezra's generosity with a finger to the brim of the hat.

Shaking his head, the gambler smiled, his cheeks dimpling. She was one Nichols he would very much like to get to know better, he thought, as he watched the unlikely duo enter the store. Buck came up behind him and watched as her hips and rump swayed provocatively.

"Ezra, why'd you go and get her a gun?" Buck asked watching the tight fitting pants as they disappeared into the mercantile.

"I just wanted to even things up a bit."

"You _are _talking about if and when her brothers get here, right?"

"Of course, Mr. Wilmington," Ezra said with a wink for the skeptic as the two of them headed toward the saloon, "Of course."

Mrs potter found a pair of boots that, with the aid of some thick woolen socks, fit Cadence fairly well. Grabbing a few more essentials and some food goods, Chris paid her for everything with what little money he had and walked out to his horse. He loaded the items into his saddlebags and turned back to hand Cadence his black duster.

"The fewer people who recognize you the better," he said tersely as she wordlessly shrugged into his coat. The wedding gown would most certainly lead her brothers directly to Four Corners but, after that, it was anyone's guess as to where their sister may have gone. A large buckskin gelding stood saddled next to his black and he nodded toward the horse.

Untying the reins, Cadence struggled to get a foot up. Swearing softly but most unladylike at her inability to mount the large horse, Chris lifted her up into the saddle. The buckskin was headstrong and started backing away from the post immediately but she reining him in with authority and turned him around smartly bringing him to a neat halt.

Nathan, Buck and Ezra stood on the boardwalk.

"If she handles that Schofield like that buckskin, she ain't gonna need our help," Nathan noted wryly.

"But maybe Mr. Larabee will," Ezra added.

Nathan smiled but Buck's face remained passive, his eyes suddenly troubled, as he watched the riders turn the corner and head east toward Chris' cabin.


	4. Chapter 4

The pair rode in silence until they came to the proverbial fork in the road. Cadence halted her mount next to a ragged, weathered sign pointing north to River Bend and finally spoke. "I'll be leaving you here, Mr. Larabee. Please thank the others for their help and be assured I'll see to the return of this horse and the repayment of any monies you or anyone else has expended on my behalf."

"And where the hell do you think you're goin'?" Chris asked, his continued annoyance plainly written on his handsome face.

Tired of his bullying and determined to be on her way, putting as many miles between herself and the prickly gunman as possible, she told him, "Why to River Bend, Mr. Larabee...or does your jurisdiction extend there as well."

"What are you gonna do when you get there? You don't have any money and I'll lay odds you haven't done a lick of work in your entire life," he pointed out and, looking at her contemptuously, continued, "Besides, you can't go draggin' that murderin' pack of animals behind you from town to town. There's no tellin' how many they've already hurt or killed chasing after you, princess."

Remorse clouded her eyes for a moment but then she firmed her resolve and, even though t sounded silly, decided to tell him why she couldn't let them catch up, "I can't go back. I…I don't love him."

Chris sighed angrily. "Christ Almighty. Would it be so bad? Surely you can put up with your intended if he's that set on havin' ya. Hell, lots of people don't marry for love...they just settle."

"Would you settle, Mr. Larabee?"

Finding the answer in his hooded green eyes, eyes that looked away under her scrutiny, Cadence turned the buckskin toward the trail to River Bend. She held the horse up momentarily to turn in the saddle. "I don't want to cause anymore trouble for you or your town so tell them I took the stage to the railhead. Tell them I'm taking a train to Boston. Oh, for God's sake, tell them anything!"

Cadence turned to knee her horse but heard the unmistakable sound of the cocking of a pistol and turned back again to see the gunslinger's colt pointed at her. "And what do you plan to do, Mr. Larabee? Shoot me?"

"Nope," he told her and moved the gun barrel lower, "Just your horse."

Closing her eyes Cadence sighed in exasperation. She was so tired of him...of it all. Chris pointed the barrel of his gun to the trail straight ahead of them and she turned her horse in that direction.

The two continued on until they rode over a hill and a small building came into view. It was a one-room cabin, a shack really, constructed of rough, hand-hewn boards with a covered plank porch attached to the front. A corral holding three fine horses stood nearby and a small lake behind the cabin sparkled in the late afternoon sun. The whole scene was so idyllic, so peaceful, such a sharp contrast to the hardened, edgy man dressed all in black who had ridden the rest of the way in silence beside her.

Dismounting, Chris helped the young woman down from the buckskin and unstrapped his saddlebags while Cadence waited, pouted really, for him to speak. "You go on inside while I take care of the horses," he told her and dropped the saddlebags at her feet then headed for the corral, reins in hand, the two horses walking complacently behind him.

Cadence picked up the heavy leather bags and walked slowly to the cabin. Once inside, she found it to be clean and neat, the room of a disciplined man living alone. There were no feminine touches anywhere, she noted, as she placed the bags on the table. She unbuckling the heavy gun belt from around her waist and placed it next to the bags then hung the duster on a peg by the door. She then sat down in one of two sturdy chairs, her muscles sore and complaining, and watched out the small window as the cabin's owner unsaddled the horses, watered them and turned them out into the corral with the others.

Lowering her eyes Cadence ran her fingers through the tangled ends of her hair. Had it really only been six days since she left her groom at the altar? It seemed as if she'd been on the run forever with only a few brief respites in which to eat and sleep between stages. And now, after all that, she was to wait in the small cabin like an obedient child until the lawman, who seemed to be straddling a thin line between right and wrong, could hand her over to her family.

Goose flesh covered her arms as she thought of her former fiance. Could Chris Larabee be as bad...or even worse than Henry Oliver? What would he expect of her now that he had her alone, away for the town and the others? What would he want in return for his "protection"?

What was he gonna do with her now, Chris wondered as he dumped some flakes of hay into a trough, the horses bumping against one another, eager to feed. He watched them jostle a few minutes more then turned to make his way to his cabin.

The stomping of his dusty boots on the porch heralded his arrival and Cadence turned the butt of the Schofield in her direction. Ignoring her, Chris just hung his hat on a nail by the door, removed his own gun belt and brushed his golden hair back off his forehead. It fell obstinately back over his eyes as he stooped to put some wood into the small stove.

"You cook?" he asked striking a match to kindling.

Cadence wasn't sure if he was asking her a question or ordering her to do so and she replied tersely, "No." Either way her answer was truthful. She neither could, nor would cook.

Chris slowly stood and glared at her again. Why did the vary sound of her voice set his teeth on edge and why did mouthy answers, even if they were only one word, anger him so? Would she continue to thwart him at every turn? He thought sourly that the answer was most likely "yes".

Under his intense scrutiny, she finally admitted, "I don't know how to cook."

Although she was loath to let the man know he'd been right about her all along, Cadence Nichols had to admit that she had never worked a day in her life. In fact, she had been raised with eight doting brothers and plenty of servants and had attended and been expelled from some of the finest boarding schools on the east coast. Unlike her mother and her brothers, she had wanted for nothing.

There was a touch of reserve in her answer, as if not knowing how to cook diminished her further in his eyes, though she didn't know why she should care. He was, after all, only an illiterate, boorish shootist whose only redeeming quality seemed to be his prowess with a gun. Larabee snorted and shook his head as he retrieved a pan hanging on a nail behind the stove's chimney.

Anger flared in her again as he looked at her, his expression full of disdain and she said, "Nor would I, if I could, cook for a jackass the likes of you!"

Slapping the large frying pan on the top of the small stove with a clang, he laughed harshly when she jumped. Walking the few steps to the saddlebags, he pulled out a linen towel and a bar of soap and tossed them to her. He jerked his chin toward the back door.

"Speaking of jackasses, you smell like one. You can wash up in the lake out back," he said and took great satisfaction in knocking her down another peg when her face visibly paled even as her cheeks grew rosy with embarrassment.

She was mortified. Having spent the past few days on the run with no chance for a full night's sleep or a decent meal or a proper bath, she did stink and it rankled her to have him, of all people, point it out. Grabbing the soap, she fought the urge to hide her head in the scrap of linen that was to serve for a towel and stalked through the back door.

His crude laughter followed her down to the lake and she thought that, if the Good Lord were truly merciful, He would let her drown. Tossing the gambler's hat into the soft grass she pulled a multitude of pins free from her long, black tresses. She turned back to glance at the cabin, checking to make sure she was alone before stripping off her clothes and walking into the surprisingly warm water.

Sinking down into its comforting depth, she was thankful to be finally able to bathe off the dirt and grime of the road. As she soaked, she wondered how she could get rid of the foul tempered Chris Larabee, although at the moment she was thankful for his purchases, however unkindly they were offered. The gunman hadn't picked a misshapen square of lye soap but an expensive, finely milled, bar of French soap that smelled wonderfully like lilacs.

She lathered herself from head to toe, dove under the water to rinse, then stepped out to retrieve the towel and dry herself. Dressing quickly in only the borrowed shirt and pants she washed and rinsed her undergarments and started back to the cabin feeling somewhat human again.

Laying her corset cover and drawers on the railing to dry in the late afternoon sun, Cadence entered the cabin and was surprised by the wonderful smells that filled it. The hard-bitten gunman was evidently a very good cook and her traitorous stomach growled audibly in the awkward silence. Chris looked up at her and cocked an eyebrow.

"Thank you for the soap and the towel," she said stiffly and, wanting to slap the smug look off of his face, remembered his warning and took him at his word.

"We jackasses gotta stick together," he replied. A slight smile turned up the corners of his mouth. "Now sit down and eat before you fall down."

Cadence, surprised by his quip, laughed aloud and noticed the way the fleeting smile had changed his face completely...if only for a moment. Her sentinel also seemed a bit more relaxed now that they were out of town and back on his home ground. As he served up the hastily concocted meal of fried beef and potatoes and the two of them ate in silence, she glanced up occasionally and noticed that the deeply etched lines of anger around his sensuous lips and between his icy green eyes had lessened.

Chris leaned back slightly in his chair and watched her from beneath hooded lids as she ate, delicate fingers holding the heavy knife and fork, long black lashes fanning her cheeks as she single-mindedly tucked into the food. "I see you don't have one of those city girl appetites," he commented, strangely pleased that she'd found his cooking edible if not good. "You know, like a bird."

Starting slightly when his deep voice broke the silence, Cadence looked up at him and replied truthfully, "It's delicious. It's not every man who can cook this well without the auspices of a woman."

"My wife…" he started, then a look of pain flashed across his features...a look that was gone as quickly as it had come.

She could not keep up with the man's changing moods. First he was rude, overbearing, then stiff but solicitous, even minutely pleasant. Now he seemed to withdraw into himself almost painfully and Cadence glanced away, uneasy at the prospect of being alone with him in the small cabin. She was evidently trespassing onto another woman's domain and her questioning gaze landed on him again.

He took in a steadying breath and spoke again, "She died...almost four years ago."

Cadence noticed the tiny quaver in his indrawn breath and her heart softened involuntarily. "I'm so sorry," she said softly.

But Chris hadn't wanted her to know even the smallest element of his life and he stood quickly; eyes averted and put an end to any further conversation. He didn't want the pity he heard in her voice and saw in her eyes. He didn't want to feel her compassion. He wanted to hate the youngest of the Nichols clan the way he hated the rest of her family. Glancing at her Chris saw that she was at a loss at to what to do, what to say. It was plain that she had blundered upon a painful subject and, recognizing her unease, he took pity on her.

"Look, you must be exhausted. There's the bed. I'll sleep on the porch where I can keep an eye out in case your kin come calling."

Her eyes met his, exhaustion dulling their blue fire while creases etched the sides of her mouth. She looked done in and he was tired, tired of fighting with her, tired of crossing swords with her at every turn. Grabbing his bedroll, Chris left the cabin without another word.

Cadence heard him spread out his bedroll and saw the flash of a match in the fading evening light. The smell of a cigar wafted through the open window. Relieved that he was gone, she still felt a little guilty for having him vacate his bed for her. She pulled off the pants, the over sized shirt making a perfect nightshirt and, with her body and mind drained, she got into the small bed.

It was soft and warm and, as she laid her head on his pillow, she could smell lingering traces of him, smoke, leather and a faint hint of cologne. It was a comforting smell and, knowing she was safe for the moment, she was asleep in minutes.


	5. Chapter 5

Chris Larabee stood next to the bed, a tin cup of coffee in his hand, and silently watched the young woman as she slept. It had been a long time since a woman had lain in his bed and the sting of loneliness pricked his heart. Still tangled from her bath, her dark hair spilled riotously over the pillow and he reached down to touched its smooth, silky lengths. He noticed the dark circles that pooled under her thick, black lashes and wondered just how old she was.

She must have been very young when the Nichol's patriarch had died in prison over ten years before, he mused, when a noise on the porch drew his thoughts from the woman in his bed to the possible intruder on his porch. Pulling the Colt smoothly from its holster, the gunman set the cup down on the edge of the stovetop where it balance precariously then fell to the cabin floor with a clatter awakening Cadence abruptly from her sound sleep.

At the sight of the gunman, his eyes squinted, his strong jaw fully set, his gun drawn, she choked back a scream and, eyes wild, rose up quickly onto her knees and scooted into the farthest corner of the small bed. Thoroughly disoriented and obviously terrified she whispered, "Is it my brothers?"

Instinctively distressed by the young woman's obvious terror, Chris quickly assured her that everything would be okay and reached out to cup the side of her pale face gently with one calloused hand. He then walked cautiously to the window and peered outside.

Vin Tanner stood a few feet from the porch hefting a good-sized rock in his hand. The tracker watched as his friend stepped out of the cabin and onto the porch.

"Didn't want to barge in on you," he said and smiled sheepishly, his erroneous assumption that there was anything to interrupt irritating Larabee.

"Wait on the porch," Chris said flatly, "I'll get you some coffee."

He grabbed two more tin cups from the crude shelving unit nailed to the wall above a dry sink and filled them both. Leaving one on the table, he took one last look at Cadence Nichols. He noticed some of the color returning to her cheeks and wondered why the notion of her own kin outside the door had scared her so?

"It's Vin," he explained to her then apologized, "Sorry I woke you."

Cadence remained silent; the blankets pulled tightly up to her chin and, after a few moments, he toed open the door and left her alone in the cabin.

Vin jerked his chin toward the cabin door and asked, "She all right?"

"Yeah. Just scared her out of a sound sleep drawin' down on you. You coulda knocked." The two of them sat down on the makeshift bench made of two pieces of split log and a plank.

"Didn't wanna interrupt anything," Vin said, then saw the bed roll stowed up against the wall.

Taking a sip of the strong brew, Chris just cut to the chase, "You find 'em yet?"

"'Bout 3 days ride from here. Sheriff from over Cottonwood wired JD and said one a the brothers got pretty shot up. They been hold up for two days 'till he was able to ride again. Let it be known they was headin' for Four Corners and that there'd be hell to pay if we was hidin' the girl." Vin looked at Chris and the gunman only grunted. "They must be loosin' some of their edge, getting' bushwhacked and havin' to hole up for two whole days." Vin said recalling the broken arm that hadn't slowed Peter Nichols up one whit. "You talk her into goin' back?"

Chris shook his head and rubbed his whiskered chin thoughtfully. "Not yet. Somethin' ain't right. For a moment she thought her brothers were here and turned white as a sheet."

"She don't seem afraid a much," Vin said to her credit, "Why her own kin do you suppose?"

Chris shrugged his shoulders and looked up as the woman in question opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.

"May I join you?"

Cadence, dressed again in Larabee's clothes, had hurriedly run her fingers through her mass of dark hair trying to make herself as presentable as possible but to no avail. To Vin she looked enticingly disheveled and, after a long moment of staring dumbly at her, he jumped up and offered her his seat on the bench. Larabee stayed where he was as Cadence took her place next to him on the small plank of wood, their thighs brushing briefly.

"Have you any news of my brothers, Mr. Tanner?" she asked the tracker.

"Received word in town sayin' they're 'bout three days out," Vin told her sipping his coffee.

"I can be very far away from here in three days," she said pointedly looking him straight in the eyes over the rim of her own cup.

Unwilling to go against Chris, Vin was unable to offer any help and turning his eyes away, he told her, "It ain't much of a life, runnin' and watchin' over your shoulder all the time. 'Sides knowin' your ma I bet she told your brothers not to come back without ya. They'd find ya sooner or later."

"I'm sure she did but…but I just can't," she stammered and bowed her head to stare into the cup, "I'd rather…" she started then let her words trail off.

"You want to tell us why?" Chris asked, touching her forearm lightly to get her attention.

She jerked her arm away then lifted her head to look at him, her cheeks flamed with embarrassment...or was it shame? She bowed her head again, her long hair hiding her face, and, unable to speak, just shook her head. Chris decided then and there that he wouldn't press her any further to tell him the real story or to return home with her brothers.

"You can keep runnin' or make a stand here...with us," he offered.

Cadence looked up, hope filling her heretofore desolate eyes. "You'll help me then?" she asked in disbelief.

Against his better judgment, Chris nodded. "You look to be old enough to make your own way...make your own decisions. We'll try to make 'em see things your way."

Cadence breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm twenty two but they all still think of me as the baby. Even before Da died Ma was always wrapped up with the family business so that left my brothers to raise me until I was of age. They taught me how to ride, shoot, drink, gamble, spit and cuss."

Chris sighed and Cadence stopped immediately realizing that she was running on, his words giving her the first scrap of hope she'd had in months.

Vin laughed, easing her embarrassment. "Why, Ezra would think those fine qualities in any woman." He was eager for her to continue while Chris began to fidget.

Still blushing, she added, "Well, Ma didn't. She sent me to Boston to learn how to behave as a proper lady and to St. Mary's to teach me about the straight and narrow but...sometimes it's so hard and I stray from the path. She wants me to marry Henry Oliver so he can, in her words, "gentle me" but, as with his horses, his idea of gentling is to break spirit."

"Sounds like there's no love lost 'twixt you and this Henry Oliver fella," Vin stated quietly knowing intimately about broken spirits.

"He's a drunken, cowardly, Welsh bastard!" she blurted out then, blushing furiously at her outburst, entreated with a sigh, "Do forgive me, gentlemen. Maybe I could use a little gentling where my language is concerned."

Vin found her candor refreshing and her high color something to behold. Unlike her brother's, Cadence Nichols couldn't tell a lie if her life depended on it without blushing like a whore in church on Sunday. He liked that about her and silently vowed he would do his best to keep her out of the hands of the "Welsh bastard".

Chris watched and listened impatiently as the two of them continued to converse casually, feeling a surprising and unwelcome twinge of jealously. His face and eyes turned dark.

Noticing the change in his friend's face as well as his body language, Vin tossed his remaining coffee into the switchgrass. "I best be gettin' back to town. You need anything, Chris?"

"Could use some cartridges in case talking doesn't do the trick," he told the tracker, finishing his own coffee.

"I'll bring some when me and the others come back."

Vin set his cup on the railing and stepped off the porch to grab the reins of his grazing horse. Vaulting into the saddle, he touched the brim of his hat and, as he turned his horse and started back the way he'd come, he smiled to himself and thought that Chris Larabee and Cadence Nichols somehow looked "right" sitting next to each other on the front porch .


	6. Chapter 6

Chris felt "wrong" sitting next to the Cadence Nichols on the bench. He was at least ten, maybe fifteen, years older than the headstrong, oft time arrogant woman. So why, then, did he want to pick her up in his arms and carry her back inside to his bed and make love to her like there was no tomorrow? He knew that, the way things stood, there might not be a tomorrow but that was no excuse to think such lascivious thoughts.

Betraying him, Chris felt his body hardening at the mere thought of bedding the Nichols woman and wanted to put some distance between the two of them so she wouldn't notice how she affected him. He stood and, without a word, headed to the corral to tend to the horses and to take quick stock of his life where women were concerned

Without a doubt, Sarah Connolly had and would always be his true love. He had loved her since they had first met and he would continue to love her always. But she was dead and he was still very much alive. A man with a heart, albeit hardened by circumstance, that still beat in his chest. He was strongly attracted to Mary Travis but in a more reserved way. Maybe it was because Mary herself was reserved and very proper in her dealings with him. Cadence Nichols, on the other hand, was a black haired, blue-eyed, child/woman with flashes of hot temper coupled with a certain innocence and, in her unguarded moments, a vulnerability that caused him to react like the young hothead he had once been.

Chris Larabee had lived a hard life and knew that it had made him hard in return and if Cadence didn't want this Henry Oliver, she should have someone like Vin or JD, both still young and wet behind the ears and capable of love. The last thing she needed was to tie her hopes and dreams to a jaded, hardened, stone cold killer like himself.

Without a word of her own, Cadence Nichols had followed the gunman to the coral and as he looked surreptitiously to his left, she filled the oat bucket and leaned over the split rail to dump the grain into the trough. The five horses jockeyed for position and, when he came near, she rubbed the muzzle of his black. The damned horse even nuzzled her for more instead of biting as he was want to do. Hell, even his horse was falling under her spell.

Chris pushed away from the fence and strode purposefully to the tack shed near the corral where he hoisted his saddle and blanket onto one shoulder, opened the coral gate and whistled up the traitorous black.

"I'm gonna ride out and keep watch on the north road. You'll be safe if you stay in the cabin," he said as he worked.

Her hair blew in a gentle wind and she brushed long tresses back behind her ears and looked up at him, her disappointment quickly turning to petulant anger. She had thought for a moment that this man might befriend her but now she saw only the same coldness in his eyes that she had seen when she had first encountered him in town.

Watching him saddle his horse, she thought back to her sheltered childhood and the men in her life, men who petted and fawned over her, who could deny her nothing. She was older now and lived in a world of hard and sometimes cruel men who still expected her to meekly accept her lot as a richly dressed and finely bejeweled piece of property.

Being the youngest and the only girl, Cadence Nichols had been the center of attention in the large Nichols family and, despite her family's dubious financial dealings, she had also been the belle of the ball in Kansas City. Scandalous in the things she said and did, she was nonetheless sought after by many a young man, much to the chagrin of their shocked and disapproving families. Her social whirl had come to an abrupt end with her engagement to Henry Oliver, another scion of Kansas City society with strong ties to crime.

Cadence had loathed him from the start and never failed to let him know it but still her suitor persisted becoming more and more possessive, more and more bullying as time went by. The more she tried to assert her independence, the more her fiancé pulled and the more her mother pushed. No matter what her brothers did they would always be her lambs. She, however, was to be her mother's sacrificial lamb, offered up on the altar of prosperity.

Months before, her brothers had recounted their run-in with a group of men charged with protecting the small town of Four Corners and the seven of them had quickly become her knights in shinning armor. If she could only reach them, she thought, they would surely be able to make her family see that marrying Henry Oliver was a terrible mistake. But on her hurried journey west, she had discovered that the Nichols name often elicited fear and loathing in most people and sadly she had found these seven men no different.

Even now, Chris Larabee's apparent anger manifested itself in the forceful tugs on the cinch strap and she realized that it had been presumptuous of her to ask total strangers for help. His cold eyes drove the point home, even after his grudging offer of help, and she was now sorry that she had ever come to Four Corners.

As if reading her mind, Chris Larabee, the reins to his horse's bridle held loosely in his hand, walked his mount to where she stood and said to her, "If you leave...you'll be more sorry when I catch up to you than when your brothers do." He then mounted the black and spurred the big horse into a gallop across the meadow.


	7. Chapter 7

His due diligence done, Chris Larabee finally returned to his small spread via the lake. Dismounting, he dropped the reins to let his horse wander to the edge of the water to drink. The black's ears cocked forward and the horse lifted his head, water dripping from his muzzle, and blew softly. Something was on the other side of the patch of cattails that stood waving in the gentle late afternoon breeze.

Cautiously rounding the weeds, Chris saw it was the Nichols woman standing thigh deep in the water. Her back was to him, her long hair pulled over one shoulder. She wore the delicate sleeveless corset cover and the sheer drawers, both items nearly transparent in the sun.

Cadence, hearing sudden splashing, whirled to find the dark gunman slogging his way forcefully through the shallow water toward her. With no time to flee, she modestly crossed her arms to shield her breasts from his eyes and stood still, her head bowed, accepting of whatever was to come. Chris reached her and roughly turned her around, her back to him again.

Cadence thought he was just being mindful of her modesty but beneath the virginal, white silk and the delicate, satin flowers and silk ribbons he saw strips of faded yellow and purple-brown bruises. Smaller fingertip sized bruises, also for the most part faded, marred the pale skin of her upper arms.

"Who did this to you?" he demanded circling around to face her, his ragged breath catching in his throat.

Heart hammering in her chest and frightened out of her wits at his fully clothed charge into the water, Cadence could only stand before him, her voice mute.

"Who did this to you, Cadence?" he repeated and grasped her chin in his fingers and lifted her face.

His voice was even but so very, very angry and Cadence, bracing for the blows she was sure would follow, shouted, "Henry Oliver! Now let me go!"

She batted his hand away but he grabbed her wrist before she could run.

"Why didn't you tell someone?" he demanded, "Surely your brothers wouldn't have allowed this. And your mother, she wouldn't force you to marry someone who would do this to her own child."

Cadence took in a deep breath and clamped her lips together until her chin stopped quivering long enough for her to answer him without bursting into tears.

"Ma believes a woman reaps what she sows and I sow disrespect and dissatisfaction," she told him and watched as his eyes widened in disbelief. "In return I reaped my future husband's just punishment."

Chris could believe it of Sophia Nichols but found it hard to fathom the brothers' willingness to just let the abuse go unanswered. "But you brothers."

"She told them it was God's punishment for my headstrong ways and they were to never speak of it again!" she told him and, having no real hope of changing her life - only putting off the inevitable for a few more days at best - she began to shiver.

No longer the headstrong and willful woman she had once been, nor the docile and gentled creature her mother had hoped for, Cadence could no longer keep up the façade and fat tears rolled down her wan cheeks. Clearly, her spirit was broken.

Chris could see it all too well in the misery in her once defiant eyes, in the defeated set of her shoulders. He gently gathered her into his arms and stroked her hair as she sobbed against his chest.

"I'll kill the bastard myself," he vowed and, sweeping her up in his arms, carried her back to the cabin.

Bundled in a course woolen blanket, Cadence sat mutely on the bed staring at nothing while Chris, his hips draped in the linen towel, spread his wet clothes on a wooden rack in front of the small stove. He tried to engage her in conversation but she remained silent. Worn out from her monumental crying jag, she sighing occasionally and he cringed every time she did.

He stirred up the fire in the small cook stove, added another log then sat down next to her on the bed. Looking down at her, she must have seen the look of pity on his face and her eyes welled up again with tears.

"Please don't," he beseeched her as he slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him, "Everything will be all right. I promise you that much."

Cadence relaxed and wearily rested her head against him. He stared down at the top of her head for a moment and then, impulsively, lifted her chin to kiss her lightly on the lips. This time, instead of slapping him for taking such liberty, she returned his gentle kiss and Chris Larabee was all but lost.

He pushed her back onto the bed and followed her down, his lips still on hers. Pulling away, his lips then followed the trail of her tears down her cheeks, down the smooth line of her neck and finally to her breasts where he feasted like a starving man.

"Mr. Larabee…Chris," she whispered and arched her back as all thoughts of her fiancé, her brothers and most especially her mother were driven from her mind simply by the feel of his lips and tongue.

He heard her whisper and stopped momentarily. Looking into eyes that were no longer full of sorrow but dark with passion, he gave her fair warning.

"Say the word and I'll stop," he told her point blank but she pressed her hands to either side of his head and dragged him down to kiss him hungrily.

"I won't," she assured him and let go of all her doubts and fears. She would know gentle caring and a tender touch if only for one night.

Chris opened the blanket wide and gazed down at her body now completely naked before him. She was so beautiful and so young. Rising up on his knees he released the towel wrapped around his waist to show her how she affected him...had affected him from very nearly the beginning.

Gently parting her legs, he slipped a finger inside her and found her pliant and slick for want of him. A small groan escaped her throat as he guided himself to her and slowly pushed. Retreating and pushing again, a little further each time, the thin membrane gave and he buried himself deep within her. It was obvious that she hadn't suffered more than a beating at the hands of Henry Oliver.

Hours later, sated and lying beside her as she slept peacefully once again, Chris Larabee watched the tip of his cheroot glow in the darkness and thought about what he had done. He was a man who prided himself on his self-control. It was how he stayed alive. What he had done that night was uncharacteristically rash, especially for him. He was also a man of strong passions and when they burned brightest it usually led to death.

Deflowering a virgin meant more to him than to others of his kind. Men who drifted, men with no ties and little conscience, men like his longtime friend Buck Wilmington. Chris knew that the act came with consequences and responsibilities and he found, to his astonishment, that he was ready to accept them all. He was ready to live again.


	8. Chapter 8

The first creak of the porch steps brought Chris Larabee fully awake. Cadence continued to sleep peacefully, wrapped in his left arm, held close to his heart. Gingerly he slipped his colt from the holster looped on the bedpost, thumbed back the hammer and waited as someone, taking great pains not to be heard, pushed the door open, the barrel of a pistol preceding the intruder.

Chris' breathing was slow and steady, his gun hand perfectly still as he watched a wide brimmed, buff colored hat came into view.

"Jesus Christ!" he swore under his breath.

Chris Larabee was about to shoot his oldest friend, the jackass, and would have let fly with a well aimed bullet just inches from Buck's nose if not for the exhausted woman still asleep in his arms.

"This had better be good, Buck," came the soft, icy voice.

Buck Wilmington started badly then breathed a sigh of relief. Lowering his pistol, the ladies man stepped into the cabin. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior and a few more to adjust to the sight before him. He looked thoughtfully at his friend and said softly, a frown ceasing his forehead, "oh, I just bet it was."

Chris extracted his arm from under Cadence's head and she snuggled closer into the warmth of the pillow. Slipping from the bed, he pulled up the blanket covering her shapely hip and backside from wondering eyes. His own nakedness not withstanding, he sauntered over to his now dry clothes and pulled on his britches. Neither man spoke until they were both outside on the porch.

"What're you doin' sneakin' around here, Buck?" Chris rubbed the stubble on his chin and then, running his fingers through his hair, yawned mightily.

"Just ridin' patrol. Didn't get a response when I rode up so I thought somethin' might be wrong."

"Pretty far from town for patrol, aren't you?"

Leaning against the porch's split rail, Buck took his hat from his head and, fingering the brim, turned it in circles in his hands.

"Mary was concerned and, rather than have her ride out, I told her I'd check on ya."

"The Nichols brothers?" Chris asked curtly.

Buck saw the hardness in his friend's eyes and knew nothing else was open for discussion, except maybe the whereabouts of the Nichols brothers.

"No word since the telegram," he said and turned toward the window when he heard movement inside. The girl was up and about, he guessed, and Chris' steady gaze and lack of acknowledgement warned him off yet again; until a loud crash sounded within followed by an angry feminine voice.

"Jumped up Jesus on a stick!"

Chris hurried through the door, followed closely by Buck, and found Cadence, dressed only in his shirt, standing near the small stove sucking on three fingers, the still hot coffee pot and yesterday's dregs on the floor.

When she realized she was no longer alone, color stained her cheeks. Buck had the decency to finally turn his eyes away, his usually sharp reflexes sorely taxed by too many surprises so early in the day. Chris crossed over to her and examined her fingers, blowing on one, then another, never taking his eyes from hers.

Buck shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as the couple pointed ignore him and finally volunteered, "I'll be outside waterin' my horse."

"You do that," Chris responded tersely and as soon as the door shut behind Buck he pulled her captured hand to his chest.

Cadence stepped into his embrace and they kissed slowly, emotions less pent up, heavily spent the night before. Chris wished her a good morning and nuzzled her throat and Cadence tilted her head back enjoying the sensation. He slipped the shirt off of her shoulders, his mouth following it down until he was bent before her, suckling again. Bending her head she watched the muscles of his broad back ripple and sighed.

At the sound Chris straightened up and smiled, lifted her off the ground and laid her back on the bed. He then slipped in beside her; content to be back where he would have been if Buck hadn't come sneaking around.

Buck Wilmington wasn't a sneak. What he was, after sitting and stewing for a long, long time, was angry. He was angry and disturbed by the way things had gotten so turned around. He hadn't felt the need to question the lawman's motives in bringing the Nichols girl to his cabin but he did question his need to bed the young woman like a common whore.

"Damn it to hell!" he spat out and jumped down off of the corral fence to pace nervously, slapping his hat against his leg with every other step.

Buck had watched his friend dance on the edge of the abyss for over three years, never caring about anyone or anything. It had been hard for him to just stand by and watch but then the handsome ladies' man had become cautiously optimistic when Chris Larabee decided to stay on as the law in Four Corners and to tentatively court the town's newspaper publisher, Mary Travers.

Since arriving at the ranch, that optimism had turned to full on dread as Chris Larabee and Cadence Nichols, of all people, waltzed together ever closer to that same precipice, mere inches from falling in. Buck stopped walking and looked over at the cabin again.

She was so young and had been so innocent. What did the taciturn gunfighter have to offer Sophia Nichols' only daughter? Days of seeking vengeance as Chris continued to search for his family's killers - nights filled with his nightmares.

Buck knew that Chris Larabee was no longer the man he had been when he married Sarah Connolly and fathered a son. After their death's, he became fragmented, broken into jagged pieces with razor sharp edges - a gunman who killed for killing's sake - always wearing the black of mourning. Cadence Nichols would be better off married to the man her mother had chosen for her. At least he was a whole man.

Frowning, Buck remembered of the Nichols woman as she stood next to the stage just a few days before. She had come to Four Corners wearing white; the color of hope, a new life stretching out before her with or without her fiancé. Somehow she had chosen to tie herself to a man whose haunted past was as overwhelming and smothering as a woolen mantle on a blazing August day.

"God save 'em both," Buck thought as he heard the cabin door finally open.

Freshly washed and shaved, Chris Larabee walked purposefully to the corral to tend to the horses. He found that Buck had already seen to them and he turned to his friend and waited for Buck to speak, as he knew he would.

Never pulling his punches with Larabee, he started in. "What in the hell are you thinking? Do you have blinders on?"

Chris cut him off sharply. "Nothin' I do is up for debate, Bucklin."

"Then I think I should take her back to town with me."

"She stays here!"

Chris' vehemence surprised him. "You don't think you're puttin' undue pressure on that girl?"

"Woman, Buck."

Buck sighed and rolled his eyes. "Now she's a woman. Two days ago she was a spoiled brat in need of a spankin'."

"She's a woman now, my woman and I'll stand with her against her brothers, against this Henry Oliver," Chris told him, his eyes cold, the set of his mouth grim.

"And when it's over?" Buck asked, their odds dwindling as the situation became even more complicated.

"If I'm still alive, I'll stand with her then, too…if she'll have me. I don't take what happened between us lightly, like some," Chris said and Buck winced as his friend's barb hit the mark, "I'll finish it here and now. After, she can go if she's of a mind to or she can stay. It's her call. If she stays I'll have her gladly."

"I hope you know what you're doin' partner" Buck said earnestly, a frown continuing to crease his forehead.

"I'll see you when they get here." Chris' words were sharp and to the point, dismissing his friend in no uncertain terms.

As he returned to the cabin, Chris realized that his friend was right. He did have blinders on when it came to this woman but he saw in her only what he knew to be true. She could finally heal his shattered heart.

Buck sighed again as he watched his oldest friend walk back to the cabin. Chris' gate was determined and his was back ramrod straight - as if he were marching straight into hell. He knew there was nothing more he could say or do other than return to town and get ready for the inevitable.

After Buck left, the two of them made their way down to the lake where Cadence floated belly down in the warm water, her naked body buoyed by Chris Larabee's strong hands. The bruises along the small of her back were almost faded away as were those on her arms. Fresh, tiny bruises dotted her neck, shoulders, legs and nicely rounded rear end.

Chris Larabee was a strong and demanding lover and welts marred the smooth skin of his back and shoulders where she had not realized she held on so tightly to him as they made love on the grassy shore. He had never felt a thing.

"Tell me about your life here," she said lazing over to float unashamedly on her back.

Smiling, he moved them to shallow water where they could rest on the sandy bottom.

"I bought this land a few months after coming to Four Corners...after I decided I'd stay on a while, to protect the town, the people.

"That newspaper woman, too?" Cadence asked splashing water in his face.

He pulled her leg, dunking her under the surface and she came up sputtering and laughing.

"Yeah, even Mary Travers," he conceded, his feelings for the Clarion editor cooling, replaced by the overwhelming desire he now felt for Cadence Nichols, the hoyden who had come to town disguised as a blushing bride.

He had wanted to slap her smug, beautiful face, take her down an arrogant peg or two but he had never wanted to crush her high spirit or undermine her self-confidence but her brave facade had shattered soon after her hopeless situation with her family and his steadfast refusal of help became all too apparent to her.

Chris was sorry for his treatment of her and would spend days, hopefully years making it up to her. He wanted to rebuilding her confidence and most of all regain her trust simply because he needed her. She was the lifeline that would hopefully allow him to let go of his anger and ease his crushing guilt.

"What did you do before coming to Four Corners?" she then wanted to know.

"Whatever I had to," he answered quickly.

Cadence looked at Chris from the corner of her eye and took his measure. Having no illusions about him, she knew he was a man of few words with a past locked tightly away but she didn't care. This man would protect her and offer her a new beginning and she would gladly abandon her family, her opulent way of life to be with him, whether it be for a few more days or a lifetime. She would take only what he offered and give back what she could.

Satisfied with her new lot in life, Cadence turned and smiled so beguilingly at him that he rolled onto his back and let her make love to him in the lake's shallows.


	9. Chapter 9

Vin spotted the group of six men riding low in the saddle, hell bent for Four Corners, in his spyglass. He snapped it closed, vaulted into the saddle and turned his horse to ride back across the plain to alert the others who were waiting just off the road leading to town. They would do their best to head the Nichols brothers off before they could enter the town but, what Vin had failed to see in his haste, was the lone rider that peeled off from the rest of the pack, heading east toward Chris Larabee's.

It was no accident of chance that one of the riders had so unerringly headed for the eventual rendezvous point ahead of the others. Henry Oliver, the one unknown quantity in the Nichols faction, had set out to Larabee's spread to lay in wait or, if the most dangerous of the seven was in residence, use his _anonymity_to his advantage to get the drop on the gunman.

Walking his horse with slow care, Henry cautiously approached the corral and, spotting the large black among the other horse therein, knew Larabee was in residence. But how many of the others were inside with him?

"Hello, the house!" Henry shouted toward the cabin as he dismounted, "My horse has thrown a shoe. Can you help me?"

Cadence recognized the voice immediately and, by the look on her face, Chris knew the spurned bridegroom was outside. What Chris didn't know was that Henry Oliver was, at that moment, fingering a woman's undergarments left on the porch railing to dry.

His infamous temper quickly igniting, Henry Oliver tipped his hand and shouted, "Larabee! I know you're inside and that my conniving bitch of a fiancée's in there with you!"

Cadence gasped but Chris assured her, "He's bluffing. He doesn't know a God damned thing." Grabbing his gun he whispered sharply to her, "Stay put! The others'll be here soon!"

"Please don't go out there," she begged him softly as tears welled in her eyes.

Chris stopped momentarily to pull her to him. "I promise you everything will be all right."

Placing both hands to the sides of his face she looked up into his eyes and saw no trepidation, no panic and, convinced he had absolutely no fear, she kissed him slowly, believing everything would be just as he promised. She let him go and he opened the door and walked slowly out onto the porch.

Henry Oliver, an above average man in bulk and in height, waited next to the door, a thick piece of cord wood held tightly his hands. Using it as a makeshift club, he swung with all of his might striking Chris a glancing blow to the side of his head.

The gunman stumbled off of the porch and the Welshman was on him in an instant, his ham like fists pummeling him to the ground. Chris lay disoriented and mute until Oliver's boot toe landed on unguarded ribs, breaking bone and tearing cartilage. It was then that he cried out bringing Cadence to the window.

Her face drained of all color and she turned away to dress hurriedly, donning the black pants, the white shirt and the duster. Dressed as a man, she hoped that Henry would believe she was one of others, one that he'd overlooked in his rash and murderous attack on Chris Larabee, and that he would be forced to deal with her instead of continuing to beat the man to death.

Cadence shoved her hair up under the black hat, grabbed the Schofield from its holster and stole out the back door of the cabin. In the distance she saw plumes of dust. There were multiple riders but she knew they could never reach them in time and, if luck was against them and it was indeed her brothers instead of the lawmen, they would do nothing to stop the beating.

Peeking around the corner, she saw Henry holding Chris Larabee by the scruff of his neck, upright on his knees, gasping shallowly for air, blood running freely down into his eyes from a gash above his forehead. The gunman's arms were outstretched; his palms up as he mutely conveyed his willingness to take the bullet from the .45 now pressed firmly to his head.

Henry Oliver demanded it but Chris Larabee would not beg for his life. He had seen the dust on the roadway and, whether it was his friends or her brothers, Cadence would be safe. No one would reach him in time but Vin and the others would see to it that Cadence was free to live her life as she pleased and he looked up and smiled a bloody smile as Henry Oliver thumbed back the hammer on the pistol.

Her heart in her throat and tears in her eyes, Cadence couldn't bare to see such a courageous and proud man on his knees, supplicant to the likes of Henry Oliver. She had to get Henry to move the gun away from Chris' head because, when she finally killed him, his fingers could reflexively pull the trigger and Chris Larabee would be dead, too.

Cadence continued to watch as Chris' defiance pushed the brutal man over the edge and she stepped into sunlight and called him out.

"Henry Oliver!" she shouted out and the man looked up.

"No!" Chris cried out when he heard her voice behind him but events were already in motion.

Swinging the gun barrel away from Chris Larabee's head, Henry Oliver saw only a second gunman and took aim.

Her objective achieved, Cadence squeezed the trigger. Her bullet hit the Welsh bastard squarely in the forehead but, even in his well-deserved death, the Welshman had the last laugh as his bullet punctured her breast, ripped through her heart and exited out her back. Cadence Nichols was dead even before her body crumpled slowly to the ground.


	10. Chapter 10

Chris struggled but managed to finally rise to his feet. Stumbling to where Cadence had fallen, he saw the blood that had blossomed on the white shirt like a death's rose on her breast. Falling to his knees, he clasped her to his chest as the others, Magnificent Seven and Nichols brothers alike, rode up to the cabin with guns drawn and at the ready.

Ignoring the immediate danger of turning his back on a Nichols, Buck Wilmington threw himself from his saddle and ran to his friend's side, disregarding completely the prone body of Henry Oliver, bullet hole in his head, dead eyes wide open in surprise.

"Chris!" Buck grasped his friend's shoulder and bent his head to look into Chris' face. The ladies man just squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. It was there, in his eyes, the same look his lifelong friend had the day he found out that Sarah and Adam were dead.

Dismounting, John Nichols holstered his .45 and strode over to the pair, his face ashen as he looked at the body of his beloved sister. He noted the battered continence of the gunman and heard his breath rasping noisily. For a moment, John thought the man would topple over Larabee he stayed upright and held on tightly to his sister's lifeless body. He then looked to the body of Henry Oliver and wondered just what had happened.

Nathan grabbed his medical kit and ran from his horse to kneel beside Chris. He checked Cadence Nichols for a pulse and, finding none, shook his head. He reached out to check the gash on Chris's head. The gunfighter hissed as the healer's fingers probed the torn and bruised flesh but he let the healer wipe away some of the blood that now only seeped from the wound.

Squatting before the two of them, John looked down at his sister and softly but firmly told Chris, "We'll be taking her home with us now, and added as an aside, "This will kill Ma."

Chris stared at the man before him for a long moment and suggested hotly, "You tell her it was God's vengeance!"

John flinched at the words. He knew exactly to what the gunman referred.

Peter Nichols come to stand before Henry Oliver. He stooped over to check the body of the man who was to be his brother-in-law and, confirming the fact that he was dead, stood up and turned to Ezra. "Do what you want with him," he told the gambler.

John waited patiently as Buck finally eased Chris' hold on the girl and helped pass her body into his waiting arms. He walked slowly to where the horses stood, Matthew and Luke Nichols again astride their horses. Holstering his gun, Matthew took Cadence gently into his arms while Luke bowed his head and made the sign of the cross. Tears sparkled in Matt's eyes as he reached out to brush his sister's hair gently back from her forehead.

"You're truly a free spirit now, Cady," he said turning his horse slowly to wait for the rest to mount up.

The silent and mournful procession started to head back to town when suddenly one horse broke formation and twisted back around as John Nichols walked his large roan back to where Chris Larabee knelt. Ignoring the guns that had been redrawn to point directly at him, he looked down expectantly.

Chris looked up at the mounted rider and said, "She saved my life."

John replied, "I would expect nothing less from Cady…but was she happy?"

After a long moment Chris nodded. "I was, too," he replied honestly and, surprised at the realization, a wistful and sad smile playing across his pale lips for a moment as he thought back on their last few days.

Convinced his sister had been in good hands and happy in her last hours, John nodded and turned his horse to follow after the others.

In less than an hour, three of the four Nichols brothers stood outside the telegraph office ready for trouble should it come their way. They stood in closed ranks on the boardwalk as more and more of the townsfolk, suddenly finding reason to be walking down the street, passed them.

John Nichols, his mouth set in a grim line, the expected but all the same startling telegram crushed in his hand, walked slowly from the telegraph office. His brothers crowded around him to hear what the matriarch of the Nichols clan now expected of them as he read aloud.

"My Lambs - Do nothing – stop – Arriving in three days – stop – Will bury my daughter in the cesspit next to the whore monger who turned her away from God and family – stop - A fitting resting place for a harlot – stop - Ma."

Peter Nichols' darkly handsome face became white with shock then red with anger and he wondered how his sainted mother could she be so cruel. Cady was their flesh and blood, their mother's only daughter. She should be brought home to the family plot, buried next to Da and her beloved brothers. To a man they all loved Cady dearly but, cruel or no, they would not, could not, go against their mother's wishes.

The brothers remained silent until Luke finally asked the loaded question. "We're to be goin' after Larabee, then?"

"Not yet. We wait 'til Ma gets here," John said and angrily elbowed his way through his brothers.

The undertaker had just about finished nailing the coffin lid on tightly for the Nichols woman's final trip back to Kansas City when John and the others strode in. Digging a five dollar gold piece from his vest pocket he tossed it atop the coffin. "There's been a change of plans. My sister will be buried here. Dig me two graves, undertaker. Two graves," John repeated coldly. He turned on his heel and left as quickly as he'd come.

Backing away, the undertaker stared at the brothers. Business had been brisk the last time they had come to town and it looked to be picking up again.


	11. Chapter 11

Chris Larabee returned to Four Corners a day later with the rented buckskin in tow. His hat was low over his eyes and he looked neither left nor right, ignoring the greetings of the townsfolk as he made his way to the livery. There, still astride the black, he handed the reins of the other horse to Yosemite and tossed him a five dollar gold piece.

"Much obliged," was all Chris said and the flatness of the lawman's voice caused a shiver to run down the blacksmith's spine.

"Someone walkin' across a grave for sure...but it ain't mine," the bearded man muttered to himself as he led the horse to the nearest stall, Chris Larabee well out of earshot.

The black clad gunman walked his own horse slowly down the street and stopped in front of the saloon. Dismounting, he tied the black securely to the railing and stepped up on the boardwalk. The horse shied and pulled at the rein when Chris' duster flapped in a sudden breeze. Looking down at the large, dark patch on his breast, he ran his hand almost lovingly over the material. It was stiff with dried blood and the hole in the material rested directly over his heart.

Mary Travers watched him from the sidewalk. The others had returned the preceding day well after the Nichols brothers had arrived with the body of their young sister resting in Matthew's arms but the Clarion editor could get no more information from Buck or the others. Only that Chris was alive and, as she looked at his battered face, she silently cursed them for not telling her he had been brutally beaten.

Wiping her hands on her printer's apron, she hurried up the sidewalk hoping to catch him before he entered the saloon. "Chris I..." she started and placed her hand familiarly on his arm. Up close she saw just how badly his face was bruised and cut and he seemed in great pain when he jerked his arm away.

"Not now, Mary," was all he said to her as he walked slowly into the saloon.

Once inside, the bawdy laughter and music slowly died down and finally faded away altogether. Drinks were forgotten and chips went un-wagered as the room suddenly grew deathly quiet and cold. The same thing had happened when he had first come to the small town and he realized that even now, or maybe especially now, he still scared these people.

"Fuck 'em," he thought as he walked up to the bar, his spurs the only sound in the room, and demanded, "Whiskey." Chris threw back the shot and when the bartender pulled the bottle back to return it to the shelf behind the bar he said, "Leave it...and one more."

Ezra watched as Chris Larabee slapped a twenty dollar gold piece on the bar. "Oh, dear," he said aloud in a voice that was barely a whisper but sounded like a shout in the silence of the room.

Larabee took a seat near the alcove and slowly the saloon began to come back to life, though some still kept a wary eye on the gunman.

Buck, with his back to the bar and his elbows resting on the shiny surface, watched as his oldest friend started to drink and ignore his surroundings. The ladies man had seen it all before. The copious amount of alcohol that would temporarily ease the pain and, at the same time, fuel the murderous rage that would inevitable overtake the man and cause him to become uncontrollable and very, very dangerous. Buck figured they were all in for a rough time of it and threw back a shot of fiery, amber liquid and turned to order up another as JD hurriedly entered the bar through the bat wings.

The young sheriff spotted Chris Larabee in the back of the saloon and started in his general direction until Buck had the foresight to step into the agitated young man's path and strong-arm him toward the bar, keeping him well away from his intended target. After a few urgent words the two of them left the saloon together.

Once outside JD insisted anxiously, "We gotta tell "im!"

"We will, JD, we will," Buck assured him, "We just gotta tell him when he's willin' to listen"

"Can't we just arrest 'em?" JD wanted to know, "The Nichols I mean."

"For what? It ain't against the law to be stayin' in town 'stead of on their way back to Kansas City."

"It should be…if you're stayin' in town to murder somebody!"

Back inside, Ezra played poker with two hapless trail hands while Nathan sat and watched Chris Larabee surreptitiously. Possible concussion, contusions and broken ribs for sure the healer tallied up and wondered what other injuries the man was pointedly ignoring?

From the looks of him, their leader had received a horrendous beating at the hands of the Welshman and, from what Buck had told them all of the budding romance between the gunman and Cadence Nichols; he'd received no less at the hands of Fate. It seemed that any woman Chris Larabee took an interest in was destined to die well before her time. Not an easy thing to live with.

Itching to tend to the man who had saved his life, Nathan instead remained seated, Larabee's cold eyes warning them all away. He knew full well his offer of help would be rebuffed and none too gently. "He should be in my clinic," he said to Ezra and nodded toward Chris.

"That very well may be but it's not likely, Mr. Jackson," Ezra replied reading Larabee's body language and intentions loud and clear as he gathered up another meager pot. The two strangers stood and walked away leaving them alone at the table.

As the gambler proceeded to shuffle the cards in wait of another sucker, the bat wings pushed open again. This time Buck stepped into the dim light with JD in tow and both men made their way to the gambler's table. They sat in the now vacant chairs and Ezra dealt the cards as Buck leaned in and spoke softly to the two of them.

"JD and me were just up at the cemetery. Oats is up there diggin' two graves - one for Cadence Nichols and the other for Chris."

No one spoke until Ezra finished his deal. Never intending to match his skill against that of his friends, he began to deal the final four cards face up.

" To Mr. Wilmington, the ten of spades - a portent of **w**orry and bad news. The queen of spades to Mr. Jackson – denotes the widowed woman. The five of hearts to Mr. Dunne – harbinger of jealousy and ill will. And the Ace of Spade to myself – a sign of misfortune; sometimes associated with death or, more often, a difficult ending."

The reading of the cards to foresee the future was only a parlor trick his mother Maude had used to fleece the unwashed, the uneducated and the unwary but this time Ezra was certain that the fates were serious and that the cards were indeed an indication of an extremely violent and bloody outcome.


	12. Chapter 12

The sound of shattering glass rent the still night and Josiah Sanchez, jerked from a deep sleep, wondered momentarily if he had just been dreaming. He rose up on his elbows, wiped his whiskered face with a calloused hand and, spotting a soft light pooling under the door, knew he was not alone in the church.

Rising silently, he pulled on his pants. Suspenders hanging loosely at his sides, his upper torso and feet bare, the old hinges complained nosily as he cautiously opened the door of his sleeping quarters. Not knowing exactly who was in need of sanctuary in the middle of the night, it was better to be safe than sorry.

To his surprise, the altar of the small church was awash in a golden glow. Every candle in the church, every candle in Potter's Mercantile, perhaps every candle in the whole town, blazed brightly and cast a rich golden glow over the plain pine coffin resting there.

Josiah cast his eyes to the back of the church and in the last pew, lost in the shadows, hat pulled low over his eyes, serape over his shoulders, staring at the halo of light at the front of the church, sat Chris Larabee. Moving slowly toward him down the center isle, mindful of the broken glass of a smashed whiskey bottle reflecting in the soft light, he chose to sit a row ahead and directly in front of the silent gunman. He folded his hands and bowed his head.

"Psalm 34:18. The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit," Josiah said, his rich voice filling the nave of the small church.

Chris heard the words, snorted derisively and wished to hell he had another bottle of whiskey. If Josiah wanted to placate him with scripture he would play along, although his knowledge of the good book was abysmal at best.

"When calamity comes, the wicked are brought down..."

Chris only quoted the part of the proverb that fuel his resolve to fight the Nichols but Josiah thought the rest pertained to his friend as well and finished for him.

"…but even in death the righteous have a refuge."

Chris smiled mirthlessly. Even in death, Cadence Nichols would have no refuge, no sanctuary. Her mother would deny her yet again and bury her far from home. He also knew that God had no refuge for him, now, or in death. He was a cursed man.

"Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted," Josiah then said and Chris laughed out loud.

Mourning brought him no comfort. Vengeance for his murdered wife and son would bring him comfort, justice for Cadence Nichols who had offered him peace and succor, both of which God had seen fit to take away from him, would comfort him.

It was his turn and Chris stated simply, "Let the dead bury their dead," making his intentions known. If he had his way, there would be no one left in the Nichols family left alive to bury Cadence.

Josiah got the message loud and clear and he would back Chris' play. But hadn't there been enough killing, enough sorrow he wondered? In a futile attempt to alter fate, Josiah tried again and quoted, "Turn from evil and do good; seek peace and pursue it."

But Chris could do neither and, with a voice devoid of any emotion, quoted Jeremiah, another sinner who had fallen from grace, "He has driven me away and made me walk in darkness rather than light; he has turned his hand against me again and again, all day long."

God had tested Chris Larabee to the limit and he had broken under the weight. A once honorable man, he now set his own rules and exacted his own vengeance whether justified or not, a man who wanted to die and who was not afraid of hell.

Josiah wondered if the gunman would demand or offer retribution. When he turned to ask, Chris was gone.

Exiting the pew, Josiah returned to the makeshift altar and spoke to the woman in the pine box. "If you don't mind, Cady Nichols, I'll sit with you awhile." And he sat, lost in his own thoughts, until long after the sun had risen and all the candles had burned down and winked out, one by one.


	13. Chapter 13

Two days later, the ironclad coach rumbled into town and Sophia Nichols, prostrate with grief and in need of the help of her sons to even walk, retreated to the hotel to ostensibly mourn the death of her youngest child. But as soon as the door closed behind her, she began to craft the plan that would allow her retribution. The whoremonger was the target of her unholy wrath and her sons would kill the gunman Chris Larabee or die trying.

Later that day the matriarch headed to the church, not to ask forgiveness as before but to pray for the protection of her sons and for the death of Chris Larabee. Josiah watched her ruefully as she marched inside after biding John stand guard outside the door. The woman ignored the coffin displayed upon the altar as she knelt to pray.

Josiah cleared his throat and asked, "Is there something I can do for you, Sophia?"

The widow pulled back her mourning veil and looked up at him scornfully. "I've not come to ask anything of you preacher…if that's still what you call yourself."

"It is," he replied softly, calmly.

She snorted at his reply and told him in no uncertain words, "I've come to pray."

"For your daughter's soul?"

"For Chris Larabee's death," she replied, "I mean to see him dead once and for all for what he's done."

Josiah looked at her questioningly and she huffed. "My boys told me Cadence was stayin' with him at his cabin - without benefit of a chaperone."

"Chris Larabee took her to his home to protect her," Josiah told her and watched as her back stiffened.

"From whom, I ask you? Her own brothers?" she asked contemptuously.

"From Henry Oliver."

Josiah's answer unnerved her only slightly and she continued, "He was to be her husband. Why would she be needin' protection from him?"

"It seems he was abusing her, beating her."

"Nonsense!" Sophia spat out and, unable to keep still, she stood and began moving around the small church. "It was her way to be willful and disobedient. Henry Oliver was only trying to keep her from sullying his good name...and ours."

"Seems to me the only thing the Nichols' name conduces is fear and loathing," Josiah countered.

"Maybe in this cesspit of ignorant farmers and cowboys," she said disdainfully, "In Kansas City, we are pillars of society, the most powerful family in the city."

"And in the Kingdom of Heaven? What will the rolls reflect when the name Nichols is called? Cold-blooded murder? The abandonment of a child?"

"I did no such thing! Cady ran off and if she hadn't, she would still be alive."

"If she had stayed in Kansas City, married Henry Oliver, she would have died another kind of death."

Sophia looked at Josiah as if he were insane and told him so. "You're daft, preacher."

"So some say but I know for a fact that you planned to abandon your own daughter to a harsh and brutal man and now you're abandoning her again in death," Josiah said and pointed to the coffin.

"She's no daughter of mine. Only a harlot would have given herself freely to the likes of Chris Larabee," Sofia declared self-righteously.

"I guess you're right," Josiah said sadly, "You're well within your rights to shun her for what you believe to be her transgressions."

Sophia smiled smugly at what Josiah considered to be a hollow victory. "We'll be glad to welcome Cadence Nichols into our little family here in Four Corners, lay her to rest in our humble cemetery. I'd be honored to conduct the service. She may have only been here for a short time but she saved the life of a man I've come to respect and admire and I, for one, won't let her sacrifice be in vain."

Sofia heard the not so veiled threat. "You can speak your piece over her, preacher and him as well because Chris Larabee will be joinin' her in your little cemetery…and in hell." She pulled the veil back over her face and said bitterly, "This is the forth of my lambs to die here. Before I leave...I'll burn this town to the ground!"


	14. Chapter 14

Not many in the small town had ever met Cadence Nichols nor had even laid eyes on her before she was spirited out of town and the turnout at the small cemetery was sparse at best. Not even Chris Larabee was in attendance.

Dresses in black for most of her adult life, Sophia Nichols looked no different than she had when she had first come to town months before. Her four remaining sons, having convinced her to attend the graveside internment of her only daughter, also looked much the same, dressed all in black, with weepers on their hats and armed to the teeth.

In the town cemetery there were indeed two freshly dug gravesites adjacent to one another. One was filled with the coffin of the young Nichols woman while the other, a hole precisely three feet wide, seven feet long and seventy-seven inches deep, remained empty. The dimensions, not lost on anyone in attendance, were the same numbers 3-7-77 often written on slips of paper pinned by vigilantes to the corpses of their particular brand of justice.

As the family gathered around grave of Cadence Nichols, Nathan, JD, and Ezra formed a loose faction directly across the gravesites. Josiah took his place at the head of both holes while Vin sat on a barrel just outside the white picket fence, his Sharps rifle butt resting on his thigh as a precaution. The tracker didn't really expect any trouble. Chris Larabee was still at the saloon and still deep in his cups but with a volatile bunch such as the Nichols, one never knew.

Josiah waited a few more minutes then, deciding Chris Larabee was not coming, began the internment service.

"Man, that is born of woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cast down, like a flower: he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.

In the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased?

Yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death.

Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts: shut not thy merciful ears to our prayer: but spare us, Lord most holy, O God most mighty, O holy and merciful Saviour, thou most worthy Judge eternal: suffer us not, at our last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from thee."

Josiah closed his book momentarily and began to stoop in order to retrieve a handful of earth. Sofia Nichols' cold voice stopped him and, at the same time, caused Vin to stand up.

"If the Lord truly knows the secret of my heart, if He has not shut his merciful ears to my prayer as you say, preacher, then he will deliver unto me the devil's own spawn, Chris Larabee."

"I don't believe he's coming," Josiah told her calmly.

Sofia simply smiled a predatory smile and said one word, "Peter."

Sofia's son drew both Schofields but fired only one shot - directly into JD Dunn's thigh - and hell rained down on them all.

Lured into the fray by gunshots, Chris Larabee bolted from the saloon and ran toward the cemetery.

"Here he comes, Ma!" Mathew shouted and trained his gun on Larabee.

With virtually no cover in the cemetery other than a few half dead trees and some flimsily constructed headstones made of wood, the gunplay was sporadic but effective.

Vin sighted in on Peter Nichols, the most accurate shooter in the Nichols' clan but before he could fire, Chris grabbed his shoulder and to the tracker's surprise pushed his weapon to the side forcing his kill shot to go wide.

Chris' gun remained holstered as he marched through the cemetery gate and shouted out at the top of his lungs, "This is going to stop here! This is going to stop now!"

"Look out, Ma!" John Nichols shouted a warning unsure of what the gunfighter had in mind. With his gun now trained on Larabee he looked quickly at Mathew who now lay still on the ground beside him but didn't fire.

Buck slowly rose from his crouched position, blood running down his side, his gun still aimed at the faction across the cemetery, the little square patch of fenced dirt now running with blood.

J.D. moaned softly. The bullet that had taken him down and that had brought Chris Larabee to a crossroads in his life, still burned painfully in his thigh.

Checking to see who was still able bodied, Chris shouted, "Nathan, Ezra, get JD outta here!" As the two of them picked up the boy and headed for Nathan's clinic, Chris took another deliberate step toward Sophia Nichols and called out, "Buck, you alright?"

"I'm here, Chris," the ladies man said letting Chris know that, even though he was wounded, he still had his back.

"Ma…." John said again and stepped forward closer to the gunman.

"No!" Chris' commanding voice sounded like a shot in the unnerving quiet that had settled over the gravesites. "It's over!"

Peter Nichols, his handsome face streaked with blood and grime, stepped from behind a scraggly tree and knelt clumsily by his brother. His eyesight was blurred with dripping blood from a wound deep in his scalp but he didn't need to see to know that Mathew was dead.

"Ma, Mathew's dead," Peter said to his mother but she ignored him and continued to stare at the black clad gunman standing before her.

John warned Larabee off. "You keep away from her!"

Josiah swung his gun, now held in his right hand, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side, to bear and warned John, "Don't try anything, son," and for a moment they were all frozen in time.

"You want retribution?" Chris Larabee demanded, his voice low pitched and angry but well under control. He now stood directly in front of the Nichols' matriarch and she nodded her head. "Then you can have it - but only you. Not your boys - just you," he said as his eyes locked with hers.

Chris pulled his pistol from its holster and let it swing around on his trigger finger and, with the butt end facing her, he thrust it at Sophia Nichols and demanded, "Take it!"

Her jaw fiercely set, she took the pistol, righted it and aimed it at his chest. John and Luke, her only sons left unscathed, moved in closer as did Buck, Vin and Josiah.

"You say you want retribution, payment for the death of your daughter? Well, I'm here to pay the price. But before you take your due, know this. You forced her to run. You forced her to seek protection wherever she could find it. She should have been able to turn to you, her family, yet you turned away from her. You should have protected her. She was your flesh and blood and you threw her to the wolves and now she's dead. You'll have your retribution, Sophia, but you're gonna have to live with it!" Chris took a deep and painful breath and continued, his voice now tempered by his emotional pain as well as his exhaustion. The gunman was tired. Tired of the killing. Tired of all the death that seemed to follow him. Tired of caring.

"I loved her and I know she could have loved me given the chance," he said and sucked in another deep breath. He let it out slowly. "So take your retribution because I can't live with it. Any of it."

"John," Sophia turned to her son and demanded, "Kill him. Kill the fornicator."

The youngest Nichols stood mutely staring at his mother for a moment then turned to look at his brothers. Mathew – shot dead in the dirt. Peter - on the ground next to him, blood dripping from his head. Luke - unharmed but clearly rattled. He lowered his weapon.

"John, what in God's name is wrong with you? I said kill him!" Sofia commanded angrily.

"No," John said in defiance of his mother, "He's right, Ma. It will stop here. I won't kill him. He tried to protect Cady. He put his life on the line for her while we…we did nothing."

"We failed her, Ma…didn't keep her safe…or in our hearts," Peter spoke from the ground and from his heart, his strength waning.

"No, she was willful and spoiled…" Sofia tried to counter but she was cut off.

"She was spirited, full of life, Ma. Much too good for the likes of Henry Oliver," John insisted.

"But the marriage would have been good, good for business," Sophia also insisted dabbing her brow with a black hankie.

"But not for Cady," John added, "Larabee said it will stop here and it will - but you'll have to kill him yourself."

"Luke!" Sophia shouted fully expecting that when one son failed, another would prevail.

"No, Ma," Luke said lowering his guns to his side, "John's right. It stops now."

Chris moved one more step closer to the matriarch and grasped the barrel of the pistol in both of his hands and pulled it to his chest, over his heart. He looked Sophia Nichols in the eyes, his plea visible in them - his plea and much more.

As if under his spell the Nichols matriarch looked long and hard and deep into the soulless depths of the gunfighter's green eyes and whispered, "Oh, Dear God! Oh Lord! Cady my lamb," and tears began to roll down her suddenly ashen cheeks.

Sophia Nichols had looked into Chris Larabee's eyes and had seen the Lord's retribution - or perhaps the devil's reward. The man who stood before her hadn't been able to save those closest to him, not his wife, not his son, not his father-in-law nor even her own daughter and the pain and the guilt and the suffering shown plainly therein. Chris Larabee wanted to die, had wanted to die for years but his Colt dropped from her hand and fell unfired into the dust.

Sophia turned to face her sons. Her mouth opened and a soft moan preceded her words, words familiar to all who could hear her, words that had come back to haunt her. She turned to her sons and begged, "Forgive me, boys. Please forgive me. Forgive me, Cady, my last-born, my lamb, my youngest, my sweetest," she begged turning to the gravesite.

Sophia Nichols was suddenly weak and in need of strong and steady support. She turned once again to John and he wrapped his arm around his mother, suddenly grown smaller if not physically then most assuredly in his eyes. Together they walked out of the cemetery toward the hotel.

Chris watched them go and cheated out of what, in his mind, should have been a just and merciful death, cried out, "No!"

Sophia turned back to look at him. Her eyes held neither anger nor hope and, as his hands began to tremble and his eyes began to well up, Chris Larabee was even more lost than before.


	15. Chapter 15

Nathan Jackson's clinic was full to bursting. Josiah, his arm bandaged and well on the mend, sat vigil with Sophia Nichols at the bedside of Peter while John and Luke saw to the preparations for the transport of Mathew's body back to Kansas City.

Buck Wilmington, his wounds stitched closed and his broken ribs wrapped in wide strips of linen, clucked solicitously, along with Casey Wells, around the sickbed of JD. The young lawman's bullet wound was deep and it had taken surgery to remove it but now, doped to the gills on laudanum, he was enjoying every second of the fuss.

Only Vin Tanner and Chris Larabee, both apparently unharmed in the short-lived gun battle, remained unaccounted for with Chris solidly among the missing. The Texan checked the livery and after spotting Chris' big black among the other horses turned out into the corral behind it resumed his search for his friend, his next stop the Clarion.

Mary Travis, having neither seen nor spoken to Chris since the day he'd arrived back in town, was curt with Vin, almost unwelcoming. He knew she had been hurt by Chris' brusque dismissal of her concerns and he hoped that one day she could find it in her heart, which he was pretty sure still belonged to the reticent gunman, to forgive him.

Vin had already checked the saloon but figured it couldn't hurt to check again and when he stuck his head inside the bartender jerked his head to the right, toward the small staircase that led up to a small, dark alcove. Grabbing a bottle and a glass from the bar, the tracker walked up the stairs.

When his eyes adjusted to the gloom he took a seat next to Chris. The gunman neither looked at him nor acknowledged him in any way. Two could play at this game, Vin thought, as he poured himself a drink of tequila.

Chris had long since given up on glasses and was drinking straight from the bottle. His chair was tipped all the way back against the wall and his bottle of rye whiskey rested on his thigh. He took a long swallow and blew out as it burned like fire all the way down.

"You been to see JD yet?" the tracker asked nonchalantly, as if they were just passing the time of day.

"Nope," came the terse reply.

"You gonna go see 'im?"

"Nope," Chris replied and took another healthy pull on the bottle.

Vin drank his shot of tequila and poured himself another. "I kinda think you should. Peter Nichols shot him to draw you out." He knew he was playing with fire but what he didn't know was how much he'd get burned.

Chris rocked forward in his chair, pushed the table over and grabbed him by the front of his shirt and threw him across the alcove and into the wall. He followed him to the wall and pulled him back up onto his feet and shoved his forearm across the Texan's neck.

"Do you really think JD wants to see me after all this?" the gunman growled meaning not just the gun battle and its aftermath but the fact that he had gotten Cadence Nichols killed and had dragged each and every one of them into what should have been his punishment and his alone.

Vin pushed Chris' arm away and asked angrily, "You think this is all your fault?"

Chris just snorted derisively, dismissing the obvious. "If I had put her back on that stage none of this would have happened."

"Maybe not here but somewhere else down the line…and do you really think you could'a put that gal anyplace she didn't wanna be put? You put her in your care and in your arms and I believe in your heart…"

"And I ended up putting her in the ground!"

"You didn't! Henry Oliver killed her!" Vin shouted but the gunman had turned away and headed out of the saloon and into the darkness that had descended on the town and on his heart.

Chris had kept his bottle in his hand the whole time he'd assaulted his closest friend and, now that it was empty, he threw it against the back of a building. It shattered, the violence of the act and the aftermath strangely comforting. He felt at peace as he realized that the last of his compassion and tenderness had been torn from him and was lying in a hole just down the street. He also felt it only right that he say his farewells…or maybe join her.

Chris Larabee thought that he would be alone in the cemetery but a lone figure stood in the dim light thrown from a lantern hooked on a tree limb. Determined to finish what he'd started, Josiah Sanchez picked up a handful of dirt and rained it down on the coffin and started to read from his book.

"Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God, in his wise providence, to take out of this world the soul of our deceased sister, we therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; looking for the general resurrection in the last day, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ; at whose second coming in glorious majesty to judge the world, the earth and the sea shall give up their dead; and the corruptible bodies of those who sleep in him shall be changed, and made like unto his own glorious body; according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things unto himself.

I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write, From henceforth, blessed are the dead, who die in the Lord: even so, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labours."

"Blessed are the dead indeed," Chris said and walked unsteadily into the light to stand next to the preacher.

"I thought I'd finish this," Josiah said to him.

"Me, too," Chris said and pulled his gun from its holster.

"God doesn't want us before our time," Josiah sighed and reminded him gently.

"What about the devil?"

Josiah chuckled. "You think the devil wants to fight with you for all eternity? Besides there are a few of us who would miss you."

Surprisingly, Chris laughed softly. He knew he was a hard man and was truly thankful for those who had stood with him and by him.

"You tell JD and the others that I'm sorry. Tell Sophia I wish her daughter's life had ended in a different way, her sons', too."

"You need to tell them yourself."

"And what? Have 'em laugh in my face?"

"Why would they do that?"

"Because I deserve it."

Josiah lowered his head and shook it sadly. He knew that the gunman thought that, for every foul deed in his life, God had exacted a terrible revenge but ever the pragmatist, Josiah Sanchez thought that most times God had nothing to do with it. Men like the man who had killed Chris Larabee's wife and son and men like Henry Oliver had exacted the heavy toll on Larabee's heart and soul for reasons of their own. God was most likely innocent."

"It's true that you reap what you sew but not in every circumstance. Your wife and your boy died tragically and what did you ever do to deserve it? Get in a few fistfights? Kill men in the war? We were all fighting for what we believed in, what we thought was right."

"Then why'd God take 'em from me?"

"Perhaps he had other plans for you…starting with this town and the six men who would stand by you even up to the very gates of hell."

Chris stared hard into Josiah eyes but the man never blinked and he was inclined to believe him, in him...and the others, if just a little. "But what about Cadence Nichols?"

"Sometimes God's needs are more urgent than ours."

Chris looked down at the coffin and knew that Cady was now safe and that pain could never touch her again and he found himself envious of her and jealous of God.

"If she could...do you think she'd ever forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive, Chris," Josiah insisted.

The gunman was fairly secure in his love for the girl and knew he'd tried to do right by her but the other things he had done since Sarah and Adam's deaths came back to suddenly haunt him. "Do you think God will ever forgive me?"

Josiah placed his hand on Chris' shoulder and spoke softly to him, "God will forgive us all one day, even those of us afraid to ask. And 'if we die in the Lord, we will rest from our labours'"

The thought of eventually laying down his burden was enticing to Chris and maybe he'd take God up on his offer someday, but he had things to do, the first of which was to see that Cadence Nichols rested in peace.

"I'd like to do this if you don't mind," he said picking up one of the shovels left behind by the gravediggers.

Josiah stilled his arm. "Sophia's taking all of her children back with her to Kansas City."

The gunman simply nodded. It was fitting. She didn't belong here, she had never belonged here and she had never really belonged to him. Going home with her family was the right thing. Chris leaned the shovel up against the tree and wiped his hands on his pant legs while Josiah retrieved the lantern from the tree branch.

As they walked through the gate, Chris extended his hand to the preacher and said, "I'll see you later, Josiah. I gotta take care of some things."

Josiah had done his best to try and answer Chris Larabee's questions but whatever happened next was up to his friend. But being a firm believer in divine intervention, he added, "Give my best to Mary and JD…and I'll tell Vin you're on your way to apologize."

FIN

Josiah's graveside quotes were taken directly from my 1882 copy of "The Burial of the Dead" by the Reverends George and Samuel W. Duffield, a book that, in 1882, was either purchased by or given to S. P. Klotz, pastor of the United Brethren Church of Butler Co., Iowa in 1885. The only page of the book to be purposely dog-eared was the page from which I quoted. I love and treasure unusual old books and knew this one would come in handy one day.

As always I hope you enjoyed my little piece and thank you for giving it a read.


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